


One More Cup of Coffee

by Lonov



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blow Jobs, Coffee shop romance, EWE, Forgiveness, Healers, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 20:11:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lonov/pseuds/Lonov
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry thought the best part about being a Healer would be saving lives every day without the constant fear of being murdered by a megalomaniac. When Draco Malfoy walked into the room, he realized he hadn't escaped so easily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One More Cup of Coffee

_Your daddy he's an outlaw_  
_And a wanderer by trade_  
_He'll teach you how to pick and choose_  
_And how to throw the blade_

 _And your pleasure knows no limits_  
_Your voice is like a meadowlark_  
_But your heart is like an ocean_  
_Mysterious and dark._  
  
_One more cup of coffee for the road_  
_One more cup of coffee 'fore I go_

—Bob Dylan

Harry thought the best part about being a Healer would be saving lives every day without the constant fear of being murdered by a megalomaniac. When Draco Malfoy walked into the room, he realized he hadn't escaped so easily.

 

Malfoy had the lime green robes of a Healer, and Harry didn't even bother not to hate him. He'd never seen him at the hospital before; Harry had only begun his residency at St. Mungo's a week ago, and he still had to work for a year as a trainee before he became a full-fledged Healer. Up until this point, things had been going relatively well.

 

Things had also gone relatively well in fourth year just before Dumbledore pulled his name from the Goblet of Fire, and in fifth year before Umbridge ruined the DA. Things usually went relatively well before they went horribly wrong.

 

"Healer Malfoy will take it from here, Potter," Healer Smith said, lowering the body of the patient—which Harry had been supporting in the air while Healer Smith performed more complicated spells—onto the hospital bed again.

 

Malfoy, who was examining his nails, didn't even look at him.

 

" _Now,_ trainee Potter," Healer Smith said, this time with force, and Harry skulked from the room. He'd been doing well with that patient, memorizing the spells Healer Smith used and watching carefully to ensure the effectiveness of the coma charm he had placed on her earlier. But, as a Healer, of course Malfoy got preference over a trainee.

 

And of course Malfoy had to bloody be here. Of course Harry had to seek out the one career in the world where he would see Malfoy every day. He should have taken up Charlie's offer to train dragons; he should have listened to Hermione when she told him to relax, live off his inheritance, and recover from the war.

 

But Harry had tried that in the years following the war and it nearly drove him mad. After two years doing nothing, he was stir-crazy. Hermione insisted he should take more time for himself, but that ingrained itch to help people only grew stronger as Harry sat alone in Grimmauld Place, until finally he threw caution to the wind and applied to Healer school.

 

Apparently, Malfoy hadn't taken any time off in the past five years. He'd gone to school, finished his residency, and gotten a job as a Healer. Which meant that Harry, having only just graduated from three years of Healer school and currently gearing up for a year in residency, was  _beneath_   _him_  here.

 

Harry glowered. He found another Healer who required help and worked on a man who had been attacked by an enormous Venus fly trap for the next hour, until his break.

 

Though he’d only been at St. Mungo’s a week, Harry already knew to avoid the coffee from the tearoom on the fifth floor. He suspected the barista made it fresh once weekly, which would explain the muddy flavor and gritty grounds in each cup. Harry settled for the lesser evil that was crappy tea.

 

After he placed his order at the counter, Susan Bones, who was also already a Healer, called Harry over to her table. She was sitting with two people, both of whom looked familiar, though Harry couldn't have remembered their names if his life depended on it.

 

"Hiya, Harry," Susan said, beaming at him. "Come have a seat. You remember Theo Nott and Marietta Edgecomb from school, of course."

 

Harry frowned—those names did sound familiar. "Wait, Marietta Edgecomb? Didn't you give away Dumbledore's Army to Umbridge?"

 

Harry hadn't meant it to come out as an accusation. Marietta went red.

 

"I... I did, but that—well I know I shouldn't have, now, and—"

 

She looked flustered and chagrined, which Harry supposed was enough repentance. Nobody had been perfect during the war. He himself had made mistakes and hurt others at one point or another; Ginny was a prime example of that. He smiled at Marietta. "Good thing you got those boils off, though Hermione would be disappointed to know."

 

After a moment in which Marietta studied him to see if he was being serious, she smiled back. "It wasn't easy. We had to go to a doctor on the Continent, but... well, I deserved it."

 

Harry shrugged. "Everything turned out all right. A permanent boil charm may have been a bit of an overreaction on our part."

 

"Getting found out by Umbridge was a bit scary, though, wasn't it?" Susan said. She turned to Theo, "Anyway, back to what I was saying, it's good to see him back today. I know he was torn to pieces about his father, despite everything,"

 

"'Course he was. I spoke with him earlier and he was in a mood; he's been snapping at people all day, I heard."

 

"Who's this?" Harry inquired.

 

"A… friend of ours," Susan said vaguely. "His father just died so he’d been out for the past week, but now he’s back. He's gone to get coffee. The coffee here is—"

 

"Disgusting," Harry and Theo said at the same time. They exchanged smiles.

 

“It’s worse than disgusting, it’s vile,” Marietta said.

 

“It should be illegal, ruining something as lovely as coffee,” Susan lamented. “But we’ve yet to bring it up with the Aurors. Instead we take turns going to a nearby cafe during our break and bringing it back here.”

 

“And here he is now,” Theo said. Four heads turned to see Draco Malfoy walk into the tearoom with a tray of coffees. He was looking down, making sure the cups were steady, and didn’t notice them staring.

 

Harry blanched. “ _That’s_ your friend?” he asked Susan. Theo and Marietta exchanged a look. Fuck, of course—Lucious Malfoy’s death had been in the papers a week ago. Even Harry, who never read the  _Prophet,_ couldn't escape the news.

 

No one had nice things to say about the man. The wizarding world had rejoiced.

 

“That’s him,” Susan said, watching Harry carefully. “We were in Healer school together.”

 

Malfoy was at their table now. “I brought the goods,” he said. Then his eyes locked on Harry, and he froze. “Potter.”

 

“Right,” Harry said, rising from the table. “I've got to go.”

 

Susan made a gentle plea that he stay, but no one tried to stop him.

 

Harry could feel Malfoy’s eyes on him as he walked away.

********

 

The next day Harry didn’t take his break. Instead, he extracted a Muggle remote control from a woman’s stomach, removed a nasty case of a nasty case of flesh-eating fleas from a werewolf in human form, and aided a group of Aurors who got hurt in battle. The Aurors asked Harry to join the force, and told him Kingsley wouldn’t care about his NEWTS, but he politely and repeatedly declined their offer. Harry enjoyed helping people at the hospital more than he enjoyed the line of fire; he didn’t want the stress of life as an Auror. He thought he’d earned himself a life without constant fear of being maimed.

 

About an hour after two P.M., when Harry would usually have his break, he was sitting in the visitor’s chair next to a patient in a magic-induced coma. Technically Healers weren’t supposed to sit in the patients’ rooms, but he was exhausted, and it wasn’t as though the patient would know.

 

“Potter,” a voice said, and Harry jumped. He’d had his eyes closed and hadn’t noticed anyone approaching.

 

He opened his eyes. “Malfoy,” he said awkwardly. He didn’t want to be outwardly rude—this was their place of profession, and Malfoy, as a Healer, had a right to order Harry around; if he wanted to, he could make Harry’s year of training hell—but this wasn’t the same as forgiving Marietta. This was Malfoy, who had tried to  _Crucio_  Harry, who had tortured for Voldemort, who had almost killed Dumbledore.

 

This was Malfoy, who Harry had almost murdered, and he would never forgive himself for that.

 

Harry stood and looked awkwardly at the chair he had been sitting in. “I wasn’t—I didn’t have my break. The patient’s doing fine.”

 

A strange look flitted across Malfoy’s face. Harry noticed one of his fists was clenched. The other was holding a cup of coffee. “I’m not going to yell at you for closing your eyes, Potter,” he said. “I know you missed your break. You’re probably exhausted, so I brought you... this.”

 

He extended the arm with the coffee in it. Harry stared at it much the way he would stare at a blast-ended skrewt.

 

“It’s not poisoned,” Malfoy said, after a silence that was far too long, and at the same time Harry said, “I don’t understand.”

 

Malfoy’s other fist was still clenched. It looked like he was digging his fingernails in rather painfully. “It’s just coffee, and you look like you need it. You look like you need about fifteen cups, but this is the best I can do.”

 

“You bought this for me,” Harry said, slowly, still trying to piece together the situation. “And you’re not going to yell at me for sitting on the job, or threaten me, or report me to anyone?”

 

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. “It would appear that way," He said sarcastically. After a moment, he continued, "Look, I was going to give it to you during break, but you haven’t gone on break today. So I came and found you.”

 

Harry said nothing.

 

Malfoy sighed. “It’s still warm.”

 

Harry reached for it. Malfoy was right, it was still warm. He must have put a heating charm on it. The smell of it reached his nostrils and immediately soothed him. 

 

“Thanks,” Harry said. It sounded stilted.

 

“If one of the Healers finds you sitting next to a patient like that you’ll get in trouble.”

 

“You’re a Healer.”

 

Malfoy didn't respond. He glanced at the patient monitoring reports the comatose spell was projecting onto the wall.

 

“Increase the  _Nonafflictio_ spell. She’s feeling too much pain.”

 

Harry looked at the reports on the wall. By the time he realized Malfoy was right, he had already left.

 

 

After three different spells that identified dark magic proved negative, Harry drank the coffee. Somehow Malfoy had known just what to put in it; it was one of the best cups he’d ever had.

******

 

One of the main reasons Harry had thought being a Healer would be the perfect job for him was because, apart from helping others, he wouldn’t need to spend most of his young life in school. Healer school took only three years, and covered the human body and its relation to magic—mostly it was things one couldn’t find out just by watching a Healer work. However, the year in residency following school was brutal: it was when trainees learned the spells to be a Healer and when and where they should be used. While in residency Harry learned just as much as he had in school, memorizing and cataloging every spell he could as he watched the Healers use them.

 

But now that Malfoy was around—and was, according to several conversations Harry had eavesdropped on, one of the hospital's most promising Healers in years—Harry doubled his efforts. He wanted to be an excellent Healer as well. He wanted to help as many people as possible, and even when he was home he was either wondering about Malfoy, or reading Healing books (lent to him by Hermione, who for some reason owned and had thoroughly read each despite the fact that her job in the Department of Magical Creatures was entirely unrelated) and practicing spells on a dummy the hospital provided to trainees.

 

Malfoy remained was an enigma. Every day—with the exception of the weekends, when Harry didn’t work, and Fridays, when Harry determined Malfoy had off—about an hour after the time Harry was supposed to have his break (which he now always worked through), he would seek out Harry wherever he was in the hospital and deliver his coffee. Somehow he always managed to find Harry—Harry realized about a two weeks into this routine that Malfoy must spend a good deal of time searching St. Mungo’s for him. This, combined with the daily hot coffee, brought a strange warmth to Harry's chest.

 

Some days Malfoy would hand him the cup and they would have an awkward conversation like the first time. Other days Malfoy would comment on Harry’s patient, give him constructive criticism that Harry struggled not to take offense to. Sometimes Harry would be lost in magic, performing complex spells on his patient, and when he turned around there would be a cup of coffee still steaming on the bedside table.

 

It was getting more and more difficult to pretend this was normal.

 

Harry chatted with Susan, Marietta, and Theo frequently, but whenever he asked them about Malfoy, they changed the subject. Still, it was nice to have people to greet in the hallways and converse during their scarce free time. Susan was dating Neville, and it was easy to bond over their mutual friends, but Harry was surprised to find that she wasn’t the only other person from their Hogwarts class that he connected with. Soon Harry understood why Marietta had been sorted into Ravenclaw: she excelled at Healing, and she was quick to offer advice to Harry when he asked; after a few weeks he all but forgot about their complicated history. Theo and Harry managed to find common ground with their mutual appreciation for the Hollyhead Harpies, which they discussed often.

 

It was still awkward whenever Malfoy came up, but that seemed to be a theme in Harry’s life.

 

The Monday of Harry’s third week in residency was unusually busy. The emergency room was flooded. He’d already seen close to twenty patients, and more kept coming. His light blue trainee robes had blood smears from several people and a Veela, and his feet ached from running from one place to another. His Monday shift was the longest of the week, and at three in the afternoon Harry was just thinking he couldn’t do ten more hours of this when he ran into Malfoy, who looked as exhausted as Harry felt.

 

There was vomit down the front of Malfoy’s Healer’s robes, and as Harry watched he peeled off a pair of rubber gloves and Vanished them. His hair was pushed back from his face and was, for the first time Harry had seen, not perfectly coiffed. A thin sheen of sweat coated his body. He looked rumpled, agitated, and delicious.

 

Er, dangerous. That was what Harry meant to think. He was flushed and angry, and he was Malfoy, so he was dangerous.

 

He was running to a nearby room when he noticed Harry and grabbed him by the arm.

 

“Hey—” Harry attempted to protest.

 

Malfoy cut him off. “Dragon attack. Patient was working on his farm when a Peruvian Vipertooth came for his cattle. He stupidly tried to fight it off and lost, obviously. He has several skin lacerations and the venom is destroying his major organs. I need you to place continuous  _Nonafflictio_ spells on him, enough to keep him sentient but cooperative. The venom wears away at the spells every two minutes or so.”

 

They had entered the patient’s room, and Harry could barely hear what Malfoy was saying. The agonized cries of the patient were so loud that the room had been put under a  _Muffliato._

 

Harry sprang into action before Malfoy had finished. He cast a  _Nonafflictio_ and rushed to the patient’s bedside.

 

The wailing immediately stopped, and the man stopped spasming for long enough that Malfoy could begin. The nurse—who Harry guessed had been the one to send Malfoy the wand-call letting him know what he was needed in the room for—hung back and watched them work. Her name was Nurse Thomas, Harry remembered; they’d worked together last week.

 

“Do you need anything else, Healer Malfoy?” she asked.

 

“I need to see the hospital’s expert on dragons as soon as possible,” Malfoy said, eyes on the patient as he cast various diagnostic spells.

 

Harry renewed his  _Nonafflictio._

 

Nurse Thomas hurried away, only to reappear a few moments later. “Healer Malfoy, we have a problem!”

 

Malfoy was sweating from the exertion of performing so many powerful spells in a row; he was healing the organs, but they continued to deteriorate. Harry watched the process and wished desperately that he could help, that he could do something other than keep the pain at bay, but he didn’t know which spells to use. They had to identify the properties of the poison before they could combat it. And according to Nurse Thomas, St. Mungo’s go-to dragon expert had retired last year and they hadn’t bothered to find a new one.

 

“Dragon attacks don’t happen very often,” she finished, doing a rather brave job of not cowering under Malfoy’s furious gaze.

 

“We don’t have a dragon expert?” He yelled fiercely, blue eyes blazing. “This man is going to die because the hospital was being _lazy_!”

 

“No, he isn’t,” Harry said suddenly. He turned to Nurse Thomas. “Firecall Charlie Weasley and tell him to get here as fast as he can. Tell him Harry needs him.”

 

The nurse nodded and hurried from the room.

 

Harry renewed his spell. When he looked up again, Malfoy was watching him.

 

“Weasley?”

 

Harry shrugged. He waited for Malfoy to make a disparaging remark, but none came. Instead he said, “No coffee today.”

 

Harry snorted. “No. But some things come first.”

 

“In an ideal world, coffee would come first,” Malfoy said, and Harry thought that maybe he was trying to joke.

 

But talk of an ideal world make Harry think of Voldemort’s ideal world, and how Malfoy had supported it. So instead of laughing Harry recast the  _Nonafflictio_.

 

There was a long silence.

 

“We need to come up with a plan in case Weasley doesn’t come through,” Malfoy finally said. He cast several more spells to restore the man’s organs and continued to heal the lacerations.

 

“He’ll come through,” Harry said with certainty. “When he hears that I need him here.” 

 

Harry had dated Charlie through his first year of Healer school; when they had broken up it was with no hard feelings. Charlie was one of the few people Harry could rely on for almost anything, because he felt terrible about not being able to say he loved Harry back, and he was determined to make it up to him. It didn’t hurt Harry anymore, but he tried not to rely on Charlie’s guilt for favors. But given the current circumstances, he didn’t see another option.

 

Malfoy raised his eyebrows. “Good friends?” he asked lightly.

 

Harry wasn’t sure he wanted to have this conversation. He thought of how easily he’d forgiven Marietta Edgecomb, and how, when he contemplated why he couldn’t forgive Malfoy, he saw the image of him bleeding out on the bathroom floor, rather than of him pointing his wand at Dumbledore.

 

No, Harry definitely did not want to have this conversation. But Hermione always said the first step to forgiveness was understanding the other person. And Harry knew the only way to understand Malfoy would be if he opened up.

 

So Harry opened up first.

 

“We dated for a year. So yeah, you could say we’re good friends.”

 

Malfoy’s eyes widened slightly in an expression Harry had come to know as the _I had no idea you were gay_ face. His lips parted in an expression Harry decided to not read into.

 

The patient started gasping; Harry recast the  _Nonafflictio,_ and he settled back into sleep _._

 

There was another long silence, this time heavy with questions rather than a lack of knowing what to say.

 

“Why do you bring me coffee every day?” Harry asked, because he couldn’t take the silence any longer. 

 

Malfoy opened his mouth to respond just as Charlie Weasley came barreling into the room.

 

“Harry?” He asked, looking around wildly. When he met Harry’s eyes he sighed with relief. “Merlin, the nurse said you needed me at St. Mungo’s. I thought I’d find you on the hospital bed.”

 

“No,” Harry said, and tried not to be self-conscious under Malfoy’s incisive gaze. “No, I’m fine. Clearly. Er, we need your help with a patient. He was—”

 

“Repeatedly scratched by a Peruvian Vipertooth,” Malfoy cut in, taking on his role as a Healer. “We can only repair the damaged organs so many times. We need to know how to combat the venom.”

 

“Hm,” Charlie said, with no attempt to hide his bemusement at finding Malfoy beside Harry. “Peruvian Vipertooth, you said? The venom works by eating away at the cells—I’m not sure how familiar you are with potion properties—”

 

“I’m very familiar.”

 

“Great. PV venom works similarly to Doxie venom, which functions to effectively eliminate the organelles through dissolving them in a glophocyde straphanon solution.”

 

Malfoy nodded. “So we need a fireseed and chizpurfle carapaces antidote.”

 

“Essentially, yes,” Charlie continued. “It takes a night to brew—I could stay and help you make it, if you’d like. I’d grab some from our supply in Romania but I’d get in trouble for taking it.”

 

For some reason, Harry didn’t think he liked the idea of them working together. The potions lab was dark and rarely occupied, and they would likely be alone in there for a while.

 

No, Harry didn’t like the idea of them working together at all.

 

“I can make it,” Malfoy said. Harry breathed a sigh of relief, which earned him an odd look from Malfoy. 

 

Charlie shrugged. “All right. That’s all?”

 

“Yes. Thank you,” Malfoy said. He closed his eyes. Opened them. “Thank you. And I’m sorry.”

 

Charlie smiled, “It’s forgiven. We’ve moved past the war, Malfoy.”

 

Malfoy flicked his eyes to Harry before his gaze dropped to the patient. “I’ll get another Healer in here to repair his organs while I brew the potion. Potter, sustain the  _Nonafflictio._ ” Rather than striding from the room as Harry expected, he didn’t move. Instead, he eyed Charlie. “Can I help you with anything else, Weasley? Your dragon advice was invaluable. That will be all.”

 

Charlie frowned, “I was hoping to speak with Harry for a bit.”

 

Malfoy pursed his lips. “Trainee Potter is at work. He has responsibilities to adhere to. Contact him in your spare time.”

 

“We can talk later,” Harry said, not wanting to further irritate Malfoy, who already looked irked and suspicious. Charlie nodded and left.

 

“Remain with the patient until I send another Healer,” Malfoy said. After a moment’s pause he added, somewhat awkwardly, “please.”

 

Not quite sure how to respond, Harry ignored him. He stared at the patient until he heard Malfoy’s robes sweep from the room.

********

 

Malfoy brought him coffee again the next day. This time Harry wasn’t sure he wanted it.

 

He found it on the bedside table of the patient who suffered the dragon attack the previous day. The man’s condition was beginning to improve after Malfoy's potion was administered to him. Harry had been writing in the man's file when he heard someone greet Malfoy in the hallway. When he looked up, a steaming cup sat on the table.

 

Harry decided not to let it go this time.

 

"Hey," he called, leaning outside the patient's room. Malfoy turned, halfway down the hall, and stopped. "Will you come here for a moment?"

 

Rocking back and forth a little, Malfoy seemed to be weighing his options. "A moment," he decided. "I have quite a bit to do today, Potter, make it fast."

 

 _Quite a bit to do, like go out of your way to get me coffee?_   Harry thought, but bit his tongue. That wouldn’t bring Malfoy into the room.

 

"It won't be long. I want to ask you something about the patient."

 

It worked; Malfoy walked toward him. "What is it?"

 

"I want to know why you've been getting me coffee."

 

Malfoy narrowed his eyes balefully. "That's got nothing to do with the patient, Potter."

 

"I thought you wouldn't come if I said I just wanted to talk to you."

 

"I wouldn't have."

 

There was a moment of silence.

 

"Right," Harry said after the pause become awkward. "So. Coffee?"

 

Malfoy shrugged. He looked uncomfortable. "It's... only coffee."

 

Harry waited.

 

Finally Malfoy sighed, exasperated. "You left, that day in the cafeteria, and as you were walking away I thought that this isn’t another thing I want to take away from you."

 

Frowning, Harry said, "Malfoy, you haven't taken—"

 

"Not me in particular," Malfoy said, sounding impatient. "My side. We took... we took your parents, your mentor, some of your friends. I didn't want to take away  _coffee breaks at your place of employment._ So I decided to bring the coffee to you.”

 

Harry didn't know what to say. He wouldn’t have known what to say if they had stood in that same spot for another ten years, waiting for him to respond.

 

Malfoy didn’t wait for a response. He was on a role now, "And then I thought, well, I do have quite a bit to make up for. A life debt and all, you know. So, coffee."

 

Without thinking, Harry said, "You're not as eloquent as I used to think you were."

 

Affronted, Malfoy lifted his nose in the air. "I'll have you know I'm extremely eloquent."

 

"'So, coffee'," Harry mocked, a smile fighting its way onto his face.

 

Malfoy looked torn between shock and wanting to hit him.

 

"I'm joking, I'm joking," Harry said quickly, before Malfoy decided on the latter. Hermione was right: it helped him to understand where the other person was coming from. Harry thought he might just be able to forgive after all. The next words were out of his mouth before he could think about them. "Look, Malfoy... Draco. Why don't we go and get coffee after work.”

 

Malfoy pursed his lips. "There's coffee on the table there," he said, gesturing toward it.

 

"Right. But what I mean is, we would get coffee together. And talk. Or fight. Or… something."

 

"That's not exactly a positive prediction."

 

Harry tensed. "Forget I said anything."

"No, I... yes. I would like to get coffee later. What time do you get off? Um, get off work, I mean."

Malfoy was flustered, and it was oddly endearing.

"Six o'clock. You?"

"I'm off at eight. Want to meet at half eight at Cup O' Luck?"

"Cup O' Luck?"

"It's down the road from here. It's where I get the coffee from. Unless there's a place you prefer."

"No, that's fine," Harry said. They needed all the luck they could get. Talking with Malfoy felt forced and weirdly polite, and Harry wondered if they would ever be able to move past stilted conversation.

"Healer Malfoy?" A nurse called gruffly from the hallway. "We need you in room nine."

"See you later, then," Harry said.

Malfoy nodded stiffly. "Yes.”

They stared at each other for an awkward moment before Malfoy left the room.

Harry was caught between contemplating new beginnings and putting his head in his hands.

******

The rest of Harry’s shift went by in a state of nerves. He and Malfoy had had a total of one conversation that didn’t end in insults, and already Harry had asked to meet up with him later. He must be mad.

Yet a part of Harry—the part that had told him to follow Hermione into the girls’ bathroom first year, and to follow Malfoy during sixth year, and to break up with Ginny after the war—told him he should give Malfoy a chance. Not a second chance, really—more like a fourth chance, or a fifth, because Malfoy had spent the whole of their childhoods as Harry’s adversary.

And that could end now. Perhaps they could become friends or something. Harry didn’t know.

But he reckoned Hermione would. As soon as his shift ended he used one of the hospital’s fireplaces to make a Floo-call.

“Hey, mate,” Ron greeted. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“I know. I think I’ll get used to these work hours, sooner or later.”

“You’re coming over on Sunday, right?”

“Yeah. I’m only calling now because—well, I wanted to speak with Hermione.”

Ron gestured to someone behind him. “She’s right here.”

“Harry! I’ve missed you,” Hermione said, beaming. “I know you've been working a lot, but have you managed to find time to read those books I gave you on Healing?”

“Er...” Harry said, “Yeah. Most of them.”

“Did you read the one about—”

“I was actually going to ask your advice about something,” Harry interrupted apologetically, not in the mood to talk about books. “But you can’t judge, all right?”

Hermione frowned. “What is it, Harry? Did you do something stupid?”

“Quite possibly,” Harry said, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. “I’m sort of.... meeting Malfoy later for coffee.”

Hermione’s expression didn’t change except for the small crease that appeared between her eyebrows. “You’re meeting Malfoy later for coffee,” she repeated. “ _Draco_ Malfoy? For coffee?”

Harry would have been impressed with himself for rendering Hermione speechless if he weren’t so nervous.

“Er, yeah.”

“Is it a... date?”

“ _No!_  Hermione!”

“Sorry, sorry, I had to ask—”

“What is it?” Ron’s voice interrupted.

“Harry’s meeting Draco Malfoy for coffee tonight.”

“Harry’s got a date with  _Malfoy_?”

“It’s not a date!” Harry yelled through the Floo. “It’s just us getting over our differences and finding a way to work together.”

“Right,” Hermione and Ron said together.

Harry sighed. “Look, what I was going to say, Hermione, was that I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea. I wanted to see what you thought of it.”

“Well...” Hermione began. “It would certainly be prudent for you to become friends with Malfoy, if the two of you work together. But you might want to make sure Malfoy knows that’s all it is.”

“Of course he knows!” Harry said, shocked. “Why would he think it was something else? I don’t even think he’s gay.”

Ron snorted. “I hope you’re joking, mate.”

“What?” Harry exclaimed.

“I saw him last month in Diagon. He’s as gay as you are. He was picking out trousers at Twilfitt and Tatting’s, and you could just  _tell._ ” Ron frowned. “You need to work on your observational skills.”

“Coming from you,” Harry mumbled. “Okay, fine, maybe he is gay, but that doesn’t mean we can’t meet just as colleagues to get over past differences.”

“Of course not, Harry,” Hermione said. “I’m happy to see you trying to understand him better. Forgiveness is vital, especially in this political economy. There’s not enough of it going around. Maybe if people see you with him they’ll be a bit kinder to each other, and a bit more understanding of those who fought on the other side of the war.”

Harry opened his mouth to interrupt.

“I know, I know, you don’t want to be used as an example anymore,” Hermione said. “And maybe you won’t be. Maybe the two of you will get into a huge fight and no one will be surprised.”

Harry bit his lip. “Do you think that’s what going to happen?”

Hermione shook her head. “I don’t know, Harry. I really don’t know. But if you don’t try then _you_ won’t know, either.”

“But one thing, mate,” Ron said. “If it does turn into a date... don’t give us the intimate details, all right?”

Rather than validate Ron with an answer, Harry rolled his eyes and ended the call.

******

At 8.25 Harry found a table at Cup O’ Luck and took a seat. He tapped his feet, drummed his fingers on the table, and constantly readjusted his glasses. He smelled his breath without thinking about it and promptly blushed, because it’s not like he meant to  _kiss_ Malfoy.

Half eight came and passed, and Malfoy didn’t show up. Harry hadn’t considered that this entire ordeal—was an elaborate farce to embarrass him, to snap a picture of him getting stood up by Draco Malfoy, of all people, to put on the cover of the  _Prophet—_ but that was what it was beginning to look like. Malfoy had taken Harry’s impulsive coffee meetup idea and turned it into something to humiliate Harry.

Fifteen minutes past 8.30, Harry—agitated and _not_ embarrassed, he refused to feel embarrassed—rose to leave.

“Bloody fucking Malfoy,” he muttered as he exited the shop, dropping a few knuts in the tip jar. “Waste of my fucking time.”

He had almost rounded the corner into a nearby alleyway where he could Apparate when someone called his name. “Potter!”

Harry spun around. “You’re a bit late, Malfoy,” he said, irritation seeping through his voice. Malfoy jogged to catch up to him; he was still wearing his Healer’s robes and he looked a bit of a mess.

“I—I’m...” Malfoy paused. “I apologize. There was a last minute emergency in the children’s care unit, and it took us ages to get it all sorted out. We thought it was some unusual strand of dragon pox but it turned out to simply be a muggle flu virus.”

Harry stared at him.

“So we were... a bit late realizing that,” Malfoy said, the words rushing out. “There were no muggle-borns on duty so it took us a while to see the virus for what it really was. I’ve personally never been exposed to that type of illness, and was under the impression it was unprecedented, but we had Theo Nott look it up on this weird muggle computer he’s been trying to crack, and he found that it goes away on its own.”

Harry raised his eyebrows.

Frowning, Draco muttered, “I haven’t said anything offensive.”

Without meaning to, Harry cracked a smirk. “Not yet.” Malfoy glowered, but a playful light twinkled in his eyes. “Everything turned out all right, then?”

“Well, yes. Turns out the kids only needed an immune-boosting potion and rest.”

Harry nodded, remembering his own bout with the flu when he was younger. Of course, Aunt Petunia had made sure he knew it was his fault, and had made him clean Dudley’s room to make up for being too sick to cook dinner for a few days. Harry pushed the thoughts away. “So... coffee?”

Malfoy blinked. “If you’re still interested. In the coffee, that is.”

They ended up back at Cup O’ Luck fifteen minutes later. Black coffee steamed in front of Harry, and Draco stirred his caramel apple spice latte (which Harry hadn’t even known was available this time of year. He wondered if Malfoy had bribed the store to keep it available year-round. The thought was strangely, impossibly endearing, so Harry tried to keep it out of his head).

After an awkward silence that came after they received their drinks, Draco said, “So, Potter, how has your life been?”

And that was it. They talked. It was surprising, actually, that amount of things they  _could_ talk about. Harry had been concerned that they would stumble around trying to find topics other than the war, but in the five years since the war had ended, both men had lived, and had experiences worth sharing.

“It’s strange to think that my mother grew up in the house you live in now,” Draco noted. “I was there once when I was younger. Is there still an awful portrait—”

“Of Walburga Black hanging on the wall?” Harry asked, amused. “No. I hired cursebreakers after the war to come in and get rid of it. It was really awful, when I first moved in. She kept breaking open the curtains at three in the morning to call me names.”

Draco laughed, “She always was fierce. I’m happy to say I only met her the one time. I don’t think mother liked her much.”

“How is your mother?” Harry asked.

Draco cocked an eyebrow. “Do you care?”

“Yeah, I do,” Harry said honestly. “She saved my life.”

“She’s doing all right,” Draco replied. “It was a bit hard on her, the death of my father. She hasn’t spent much time home since it happened. Right now she’s in France.”

Harry nodded. “And how are you?”

“Better off, probably.” At Harry’s look, Draco sighed. “I was upset at first, Potter... very upset. But honestly, I think... the world isn’t the same now as it was last year, even. The new pro-muggle legislation they’ve enacted after the war is great,” he said assuredly, “but they’re adding more every day, and Father was never able to cope with it.”

Harry watched him closely.

“I don’t have delusions that he was a good man. Not anymore. But there’s nothing I can do about who he was, or what he did. What he had me do.”

Harry said, rather pointlessly, “You didn’t kill anyone.”

Draco didn’t respond. He stirred the remains of his drink with a thin plastic straw.

“Well, anyway,” Harry said, uneasy at Draco’s response. “You’ve, er, made a good Healer.”

At this Draco smiled, clearly enthusiastic about the topic, and proceeded to relay to Harry his most interesting experiences at the hospital.

Shortly into this conversation, one thing became clear: Draco Malfoy was a gossip. He chatted for a long while about the other employees at St. Mungo’s, and while Harry didn’t care for the tales of other people’s lives, the way Draco narrated each story had him listening intently, often laughing along. Harry guessed his gossiping had something to do with his adolescent time spent with Pansy Parkinson, who was the most infamous gossip at Hogwarts. When he mentioned this to Malfoy, intending it as a joke, Draco faltered.

“I haven’t seen her since the war,” he said. 

“Er... neither have I,” Harry replied, not sure what else to say. “I just meant, you were close at school. You dated for a bit, didn’t you?”

Draco’s frown, which had appeared when Harry brought up their school days, deepened. “No. We gave the appearance of that. But we were never actually together.”

“But you pretended to be? Why?”

Draco fidgeted with his coffee. He seemed to be weighing options, carefully deciding what to say next. After a moment he looked up into Harry’s eyes and said, slowly, “Because I needed some way to convince my father I was straight, so that he wouldn’t disown me.” 

Harry’s mouth fell open. He felt it, and he knew it was rude, and he needed to stop his jaw hanging down to the table, but he couldn’t believe it. Ron had been right—Draco was gay. As gay as Harry, apparently, which shouldn’t have been so surprising except that, Merlin, Ron’s observational skills had picked up since he joined the Aurors, and Harry was truly obtuse.

He was also out alone with another gay man, which hadn’t happened since Charlie.

For a second images flooded Harry’s head: of kissing Draco, touching him, laughing with him, and fucking him. Harry closed his eyes to the pictures, trying to bat them away—this wasn’t the place or time or the  _person._  Just because he hadn’t been laid in a while didn’t mean he had to pine for the first gay man he ran into.

The conversation had come to an awkward halt. Harry had no idea what to say next. “So... er, did you date anyone in school, then?”

“I dated Blaise for a bit.”

“Blaise Zabini? I didn’t know he was gay.”

“He’s bisexual, actually.” Draco said, waving it off. “But what about you? How is it that you broke up with Ginny Weasley and wound up with her brother instead?”

“It’s a bit of a weird story,” Harry admitted, unsure of how much he was willing to share. He didn’t mind talking about how he and Charlie got together, but he refused to tell Draco that it had ended because Charlie didn’t feel the same way Harry did. “I dated Ginny mostly because her family wanted me to, I think, and I just... they were the closest thing I had to family. I wanted to keep them around.” He glared at Draco, daring him to challenge this, or mock Harry’s dead parents, but instead he only watched Harry with calm gray eyes. “When I realized it wouldn’t work between us because I liked blokes, I was a bit desperate to stay with the Weasleys, and I knew Charlie was gay, so I took it up with him...” Harry sighed. It was an old wound, and it didn’t hurt anymore, but it did make him wistful to think about. He’d never felt for anyone else what he had felt for Charlie. “We didn’t work out, clearly. He does his thing with dragons in Romania and I’m busy training to be a Healer, so...” he trailed off.

“So that’s why you broke up? I’m not sure it’s dramatic enough for the exciting life of Harry Potter,” Draco teased.

Harry shrugged. “It’s not exactly why we broke up. But, no offense, Draco, that’s not really your business. And I don’t want you spreading any of this around.”

Blinking, Draco said, “I didn’t mean to strike a nerve, Potter. Or is it Harry now?”

Harry shrugged.

“Right. Well, in any case, I wouldn’t spread this around. I do like to gossip, but not about the lives of my friends. Or people who I... would like to be friends with. I was only curious about why you ended it with Weasley. It seems like you’re still on good terms.”

“We are,” Harry said. Suspicious of why Draco was so curious about his relationship with Charlie. He’d probably noticed how fit Charlie was when he came into the hospital, and wants to make sure Harry’s out of the way so he can make a move. Charlie would probably go for Draco, too. Harry wasn’t entirely sure why that idea makes him so angry; he was long over Charlie, after all, though his current reaction made him question that. Clenching his fists, Harry decided to prove to himself and Draco that he’d moved on by saying, through semi-clenched teeth, “Would you like me to set you up with him?”

Draco, who had been peering into his cup to search for more caramel apple spice latte, snapped his head up. “What? Why?” 

“Er—I thought maybe you were interested,” Harry mumbled into his own cup.

“Interested in Charlie Weasley?” Draco said incredulously, running his finger over the edge of his cup in an endless circle. He stared at Harry, a twinkle of mischief in those gray irises. “Not quite.”

Harry blanched. This was flirting. This was Draco Malfoy flirting with him.

It seemed weird now to think of him as Draco  _Malfoy_. It occurred to Harry that he’d been thinking of him as only  _Draco_ all night. But this was Malfoy, after all, who probably still had the _Sectumsempra_ scars across his chest. For one swift, obscure moment, Harry was overcome by the urge to ask to see them. He held himself back.

Draco continued to stare at him. “Would you like to go out with me again?”

Harry, who had been thinking about Draco’s chest, was pulled from his reverie. “Er, out—like a date?”

“Er, yes, er, like a date,” Draco mocked, smiling. It was a nice smile. “Tomorrow evening, at this same place. If you’re interested.”

“I suppose,” Harry agreed, feeling quite as if he had no idea what was happening. Except that Draco was asking to see him again, and,  _yes,_ he did want that.

He thought of Draco’s chest again, of how badly he wanted to see it, to see what he’d left on Draco’s body and heal it however he could.

Harry suspected he was already lost.

Draco stood and stretched. “Good. I’ll see you here tomorrow, same time? I’ve an early shift tomorrow, I should get going.”

Harry glanced at his watch and was surprised to see it was almost half ten. “I’ve got to go, too. I didn’t realize how late it’s gotten.”

Smirking, Draco said, “Time flies...”

Harry punched him lightly in the arm and followed him from the cafe.

He felt a strange sense of hope.

******

The first thing Harry did on his break the next day was search out Susan Bones. He’d spent the night before thinking about Draco, and he needed to talk to someone who knew him better than Harry did. It was that one thing—that one comment about Draco not killing anyone, and his silent response—that Harry uneasy, and he wanted to reassure himself it didn’t mean anything.

“Susan!” He called, jogging down the hall after her. “Hey, I wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh?” She asked. “What about?”

“Draco Malfoy.”

Susan raised her eyebrows. “Tall, stick-skinny, blond hair? I know of him. And I won’t bad-mouth my friends, Harry, so don’t even try.”

“No, that’s not what I mean,” Harry said. “Actually, er… he asked me out for tonight.”

“Oh.” Susan looked surprised. “And?”

“And... I don’t know. You’re friends with him. Has he changed since the war? I mean, we were enemies in school, I don’t want to get too involved if it’s some sort of trick or something.”

Susan pursed her lips. “I think you already know the answer to that question, Harry,” she said coldly. “And I think it would do you some good to start thinking of things in terms of who everyone is now rather than who we were as teenagers.” With that advice, she left Harry to stand alone in the hallway.

After a moment, a figure walked out of the room to Harry’s right. He looked pale and angry and, Harry realized with a sinking sense of dread, a lot like Draco Malfoy.

His Healer’s robes were imposing, and the sneer on his face made him look downright vicious. “Don’t worry about solving my secret evil intentions,” he hissed. “The offer for tonight is off the table. Have a nice day, trainee.”

He stalked away, leaving Harry to cover his face with his hands and curse himself.

******

That night, after his shift ended at eight, Harry went straight to bed. He laid there for hours turning over the conversation in his head, attempting to figure out where he’d gone wrong and why. He had thought—well. He’d thought it made sense to make sure Draco didn’t have any ill intentions, but as he sorted through memories of the previous night he understood how he had offended Draco.

Draco had tapped his hands on the table and gushed gossip to Harry and sometimes talked too much, as if he were nervous. He’d said he’d like to be friends with Harry and, fuck, Harry had gone behind his back to ask Susan if he had any  _nefarious agendas_.

Harry felt ridiculous.

He was an idiot. A cold-hearted, blind, unappreciative idiot. He’d taken Draco’s outstretched hand and, for the second time, rejected it. Only it was worse this time because now Harry had no reason to not trust him—no reason except past prejudices and insecurities, and a stupid overreaction to Draco’s silence on one question that could probably be easily explained.

And even if it couldn’t, well, Harry had killed someone, too. With a Disarming spell, sure, but the man was still dead.

Harry sighed. He didn’t like to think about that.

Inevitably thoughts of Draco led back to certain thoughts Harry had had at Cup O’ Luck the night before, of him smiling and laughing, naked and moaning. Convinced that he was the stupidest man alive, Harry flung off his blanket and reached into his boxer shorts. Fuck, Draco was gorgeous; Harry had noticed it the first day he’d seen Draco at the hospital, had noticed how he’d filled out his robes, how perfect his cheekbones were, how soft his flaxen hair looked.

 _I am an arsehole,_ he thought, wrapping a hand around his cock and reaching the other down to tug at his balls. He pictured Draco’s mouth licking him, sucking him, and his hands reached lower to rub against his hole. In his mind Draco looked up at him and smirked before he bit Harry’s thigh. Draco said, “ _you’re bloody sexy, Harry,”_ and  _“would you like me to rim you now?”_ and “ _I forgive everything you’ve ever done.”_ His mouth traveled further down to Harry’s hole, where Harry’s fingers were Draco’s tongue and they’d just found his prostate,  _fuck—_

Harry came with a low moan and bit his lip. “Goddamn,” he said aloud, as soon as his orgasm faded away.

He had to make it up to Draco some way, to prove that he wasn’t actually the unforgiving, paranoid arsehole he’d come off as. If nothing else, he had to make Draco smile again. He had to convince him that he was sorry.

And if it destroyed his pride, well, worse things have happened. Like the second rising of Voldemort.

Harry fell asleep wondering how to apologize to Draco, and he dreamt that mugs of coffee were dancing in the rain.

*****

Harry had never truly appreciated how difficult it must have been for Draco to find him during their breaks every day. As it was, he’d been searching for ten minutes with no results. The several people he’d asked had been no help, and he was starting to contemplate creating a St. Mungo’s edition of the Marauder’s Map.

He finally found him on the third floor, treating a patient with uncontrollable giggling due to a nasty attack by a rather strange plant.

Silently and wordlessly, Harry Levitated a caramel apple spice latte onto the table beside the patient’s bed. Draco, who was performing some complicated magic on the patient, and whose back was to Harry, didn’t notice. The patient was giggling too much to tell Draco a latte had just floated into the room.

He waited outside the room until he heard Draco ask, “how did—ah,” at which point he disappeared before Draco could find him standing in the hallway.

This ritual continued for the next week. Every day Harry would sail a caramel apple spice latte into whichever room Draco was working in. At first it wasted Harry’s shift time—he’d gotten the lattes right before work (for fear of running into Draco at the coffee shop if he went during their break) and had to scramble to find Draco when he should have been doing his job—but eventually he developed a system of leaving his home half an hour early so he had time to pick up the latte and find him before his shift began. On the days when Draco didn’t work the same times as Harry, he glued the drink to Draco’s locker with magic that only Draco could remove. Harry realized he was being weird, but—well. He was also proving a point. He only hoped Draco would forgive him.

Harry never got any messages back, but he liked to think Draco was slowly caving in to his coffee-fueled charm.

He had the peculiar feeling that he was making up for more than just one stupid comment.

He remembered that Draco didn’t work on Fridays, but on Saturdays—when Harry had off—he still went to St. Mungo’s to drop off a latte. Today was one of those days. Harry had woken up at seven and hadn’t been able to go back to sleep, so at eight he was already at the door to St. Mungo’s.

Near the entrance he ran into Susan. She noticed the cup in his hand, with its undeniably loud slogan “ _Start your day with a Cup o’ Luck!_ ” and nodded her head.

“He never told us where he was getting them, but I thought they might be from you,” she said. “I’m proud of you, Harry. Even Marietta was sure you’d never get along, after what she did, but she says you talk frequently now.”

Harry shrugged.

“Keep it up with the coffee,” Susan suggested. “He’ll come around. Right now he’s on Creature-Induced Injuries on the first floor, I just saw him.”

A bubble of hope and happiness rose in Harry’s chest. “I—thank you.”

“He’s had a twenty-four hour shift, though, I don’t think he’s in the best mood.”

Shrugging off her concern, Harry raced to through the first floor, searching for Draco. He had quite a few errands to do today, and the time spent running around St. Mungo’s ate at his weekends. He'd just drop off Draco's latte quickly—to remind Draco that Harry was still here, and he was still sorry—and then he'd leave.

That would have been an excellent plan if Draco had gone along with it. But Harry found him walking swiftly down the corridor in the opposite direction, and his eyes flashed when he saw Harry. Instinctively, Harry turned and headed for the nearest empty room. Draco followed him.

He stalked to where Harry stood beside the empty bed. "Potter," he said, eyes narrow.

"Er."

"You've off today."

Harry could feel heat suffusing his face. "Er."

"'Er,' Potter? Is that all you can say?"

"No, er—I mean, I have... this for you," Harry said lamely. He held out the sugary latte. Draco glared at it.

"I don't want it."

"What? Why? You enjoyed it enough when we were in the coffee shop. I thought—I thought it must be what you drank every day."

"Every day?" Draco said, still annoyed. "No. I tend to save extravagant drinks for special occasions. Although recently I  _have_ been drinking it every day. Do you know why that is, Potter?"

Harry coughed. "No?" Draco glared at him. "I mean, yes! Draco, I wanted to apologize. I was an arse. I should have realized the first time we ever talked at the hospital that you'd changed, but instead it took me until—well, until I said something stupid."

"You act like that isn't a common occurrence."

"It is. But usually I treat my friends better. Or at least, people who I would like to be friends with."

They locked gazes. Draco seemed to be deciding whether to be angry or not.

"I'm not evil," he finally said.

Harry actually laughed. "I know that. Draco, I’ve known it for a while. There is a reason I spoke at your trial. It was stupid of me to think of you in the same paranoid light I saw you during the war."

Draco watched him silently.

Unsure, Harry continued, “I just... there was one thing. When I said you hadn’t killed anyone, you didn’t—you didn’t say anything back. It worried me a bit. Did you...”

Draco’s face remained expressionless. “No one knows it was me that did it,” he admitted, raising his chin defiantly. “But they can, for all I care. No one will miss him.”

Harry stepped closer, his face with inches from Draco’s. “Who was it?” he whispered, and held his breath.

“Greyback,” Draco said. “I  _fucking killed_ Greyback. And I’d do it again. He deserved to die.”

Harry swallowed and slowly nodded. His body was so close to Draco’s, all he had to do was whisper. “I know. I don’t blame you. I won’t tell anyone.” He laughed humourlessly. “I killed Voldemort and everyone loves me for it.”

“I don’t love you for it,” Draco whispered, and Harry kissed him.

Draco pushed him off. "You—what—"

Harry shrugged.

"Don't kiss me in my place of  _employment,_ Potter!"

"It's Harry."

"Regardless," Draco said, eyeing him carefully. "If you really want to kiss me it should be at my flat later tonight."

Harry sucked in a breath. "How much later?"

"Seven?" Draco said, as he walked out of the room. "I'll owl you the address."

Grinning broadly, Harry agreed with almost too much enthusiasm. "Wait!" He called as Draco was walking away, "you forgot your latte! I spent good money on this concoction."

With a laugh and a rather rude two-fingered gesture, Draco grabbed his drink and got back to work.

******

He hadn't managed to do all his errands; in the end he Apparated from the hospital straight back to Grimmauld Place and immediately settled down for a wank. It was tough work, being attracted to Draco. He hadn't been this horny since he was sixteen. It was as if all of the frustration and tension that Harry had built up toward Draco in school had morphed into a ball of  _desire._

At exactly seven o'clock that evening Harry arrived at Draco's flat. Nerves thrummed through his body before he even knocked on the door. Butterflies fluttered through his stomach. He hasn't felt quite so warmly anxious in years.

Harry didn’t tell Draco that when he opened the door.

“Pot—Harry,” Draco greeted. “Please come in.”

Harry followed him through the large flat into the kitchen, where a kettle was shrieking. As Harry settled himself at the quaint kitchen table, Draco busied himself grinding fresh coffee beans and pouring them into a French press along with the steaming water. Harry watched as Draco stirred the mixture and grinned when Draco sat across from him at the table.

“You can’t go very long without coffee, can you?”

“It is an addiction,” Draco replied, faux-solemn, “and I am firmly in its clutches.”

Harry laughed. “Should we send you to rehab?”

“If I went I’d drag you with me, Harry.”

“What, me? I could go ages without coffee!”

Draco stared at him.

“All right, weeks.”

One blond eyebrow flicked.

“Days. Hours. Stop it!” Harry laughed, “I really can go hours. Goodness, I’d spend half my life pissing if I drank it that.”

Draco snorted. “That sounds about right.” He moved back toward the French press, and pushed the lid down before pouring out two mugs. “Milk and sugar?”

“Two sugars,” Harry said. “And will you be having apple caramel in yours?”

With a smirk Draco replied, “Just because I’m in your presence doesn’t mean it’s a special occasion,  _Potter_.”

“Well,  _Malfoy_ ,” Harry said, rolling the name on his tongue as he moved toward Draco, who was leaning against the counter stirring sugar into his cup. “I would have to disagree with that.”

“That’s because your ego is the size of an elephant’s—”

Harry kissed him. He didn't even think about it, just impulsively raised a hand to the back of Draco’s neck and pressed their lips together. A small gasp escaped Draco's lips.

Harry prodded Draco’s lips with his tongue, willing him to open up, and after a while he did; a curious tongue came to join Harry’s. Draco wrapped his hands around Harry’s hips and pulled him in tighter, their hips rubbing together. Harry took this as permission to move his mouth to Draco’s neck and plant lengthy kisses to the skin there. His cock was hard, straining against the zipper on his jeans. He could feel a hard length against his hip that suggested Draco was similarly excited. Almost without thinking, he guided his hand to Draco’s crotch and moan into the other man’s neck.

“Fuck,” Draco breathed, pushing Harry back and taking his hand away from his crotch. “And here I was under the impression you only came by for coffee."

Harry laughed, but Draco’s face remained serious. “Oh my God, you’re serious? Draco, what did you think I was thinking when you invited me over your flat?”

A blush covered Draco’s cheeks and he muttered, “I don’t know. I suppose I don’t usually... do this. On the first date, I mean."

Harry watched him for a moment, sure he must be joking. When Draco’s blush only deepened, he said, “Wait, you’re serious? I just—I mean, it’s okay. But—really?”

“Well it’s not exactly in good taste to give away my assets so freely,” Draco sniffed, clearly uncomfortable. “I do have more self-respect than just jumping into bed with any man who treats me to a coffee.”

Harry struggled to sort through his thoughts. His mind was fogged by his arousal, but he was determined to hear Draco out. “So you don’t want to do this?”

“I—” Draco said, and blushed further. He seemed rather embarrassed by the whole situation. It was actually adorable. “I don’t think I would classify you as just any man. And it’s not like I’m a virgin, all right, so don’t even think about spreading that rumour. I’m just not usually... involved so soon.”

“But I’m not just any man,” Harry said slowly in an attempt to understand.

“Well, no.”

“So... I can suck your cock?”

Heat flared in Draco’s eyes. His pupils dilated, so his gray irises were almost entirely black. “Well, you aren’t just any man. We _have_ known each other since we were eleven, and if every latte you’ve brought me so far counts as a date then I think we’ve already got quite a relationship.” Harry nodded him on, a slow smile growing on his face. “Yes. I think sucking my cock would be a very good idea.”

******

Considering how many times Harry imagined Draco sucking his cock, he had spent a surprisingly short amount of time imagining what the opposite would be like. He decided to go slow, savoring every moment, feeling as if he never wanted this time in Draco’s bedroom to end. He kissed down Draco’s chest, nurturing each _Sectumsempra_ scar with his tongue and whispering apologies over and over as Draco clutched his hair.

“Shh,” Draco said, stroking Harry’s face. “Don’t apologise, Harry. Don’t apologise.”

After a few more minutes, Harry did. His mouth traveled to Draco’s nipples, which he was pleased to discover were quite sensitive. Draco was loud and—though he was biting his hand in an obvious attempt to contain himself—surprisingly animated. His hands leafed through Harry’s hair, grip tightening as Harry traveled further down his body, and eventually tongued through the trail of blond hair leading up to Draco’s cock.

He bit Draco’s thighs first, lightly, spending just enough time kissing the skin that Draco hoarsely called him a tease and insisted Harry was killing him. When Harry finally got to Draco’s cock, he took him as far down as he could, relishing the robust reactions. When he moved to suck on Draco's balls, Harry's hair was being tugged so hard he thought it might be pulled from his head.

Draco came with Harry's left hand fondling his balls, his right jerking off the part of Draco’s cock his mouth couldn’t reach. Knowing he only had a moment to go before he came, too, Harry guided Draco’s hand to his cock and wanked himself once, twice, three times before he was coming into both of their fists.

“Fuck,” Harry muttered as he fell into the bed beside Draco.

“Mmm,” Draco agreed, stroking Harry’s hair back from his face. “S'good. Sleep.”

Harry smiled dreamily, closed his eyes, and, before he could respond to Draco's brilliant idea, was asleep.

He woke to Draco tugging his arm out from where Harry had been holding it captive during the night.

“Need to pee,” Draco murmured. Sleepily, Harry released his arm. He was prepared to go back to sleep until the realization that he had just  _spent the night at Draco’s house_ waded through his murky thoughts.

He sat up rather swiftly. “Draco?”

“Yeah?” a voice called from behind a nearby door where, Harry assumed, the toilet was.

“Er—should I go?”

There was the sound of a toilet flushing and a sink running. Draco came out of the room frowning. “Go?” He rubbed the back of his neck. It was at this moment that Harry realized Draco was wearing only pants, and that Harry himself was wearing nothing. “I—if you want to? Or you could stay. I was going to make coffee for us.”

A slow, steady smile spread over Harry’s face. He liked the way Draco said  _us,_ and he loved the idea of a morning-after breakfast. And coffee.  His smile broke into a grin.

Draco looked at him a bit nervously. “What?”

Harry laughed and rose from bed, shaking his head at Draco's anxious confusion.

"Yes," Harry said, and a slow grin spread across Draco's face. “Coffee sounds wonderful.”


End file.
